Comma
It’s the little hours I like best. In between moments of rest and wake, eyes parch like paper. Scratchy and dry they turn toward the edges of something missed by only a mark.
The Almost, but Not Quite of a woman turning her head or the skinny places where buildings almost touch. It’s the cross section between thoughts that mean something and thoughts that want to be something. They intersect, briefly touching in a fleeting moment before the intensity is too much. The period at the end of the sentence seems too final.